


Long Now They Sleep

by deedeeinfj



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/pseuds/deedeeinfj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Now They Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2003

Aragorn took in the first full breath he'd enjoyed since the battle began, then let it out slowly. Around him lay the bloodied bodies of allies and enemies, now barely distinguishable from one another, as if to remind those still living that both sides had paid a heavy price. He lifted his eyes from the devastation at his feet to look at what they had all struggled to win. Even beneath the heavy, encroaching darkness of Mordor, the white terraces and towers of Minas Tirith shone, untinged by the fiery red of the sky and the bloody scarlet of the fields.

He glanced to his right, where Éomer stood. The new King of the Mark turned to him and smiled slightly, his joy at the victory obviously far outweighed by the grief that had driven him to win it.

"Théoden's last day will never be forgotten," Aragorn said quietly.

Éomer was silent for a minute, then said, "Nor will Éowyn's."

Aragorn frowned and turned fully towards Éomer. "Éowyn?" he repeated, not quite understanding his friend's meaning.

"Éowyn fought today," Éomer said dully. "Did you not hear the men swearing to avenge her blood and Théoden's as they charged into battle? It was she who felled the dark lord of the Nazgûl, and the halfling witnessed her death."

Aragorn felt a strange numbness taking over his chest. "How did she come to be here?"

"I saw her body myself," Éomer said, his throat tight. "She was dressed and armed as a rider of Rohan. I have lost both uncle and sister in this day's fight."

Aragorn neared Éomer and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry, Éomer."

"She wanted to die." Éomer's voice was cold and distant.

Aragorn lifted his head and rested his eyes once more on Minas Tirith. Éowyn had begged to go with him on the Paths of the Dead, and had he allowed it, she might be alive now. She had graced Rohan for only twenty-four years, and now her own promising life had been brought down with that of the darkest evil. He did not love her... could not love her, when for decades he had belonged to another. But for her he felt the deepest stirrings of understanding and sympathy, of admiration and kinship. "Éomer--"

"Lord Aragorn!"

Aragorn stopped and turned to face the man who addressed him, a member of the Grey Company and an old friend. "Yes?" he asked wearily, the relief and happiness of victory ebbing away into grief and foreboding.

"Aragorn." The voice was lowered now. "Aragorn, we have numbered our losses among the Dúnedain of the North, and among them was your kinsman."

He allowed himself to look down once more at the bodies strewn about him. "Not Halbarad?" he asked. Though Halbarad was his only kinsman, it was impossible that he was dead. It could not be possible that the man with the loudest laugh in the Prancing Pony should now lie somewhere on this field.

"It was indeed Halbarad," said the Ranger quietly.

Raising his head again, Aragorn stared once more at Minas Tirith. "His body has been taken into the city, I trust?"

The Ranger stepped closer. "Strider... his body is lost."

Aragorn said nothing. From the left, Imrahil was approaching them on horseback, and Aragorn stepped back to lay a hand on his own horse. Beside him, Éomer had already mounted his horse and was riding to meet Imrahil. The time had come to ride to the City, which Aragorn did not plan to enter. For all his joy to see the White City again, the city which they had won at such great cost, wisdom demanded that he stay the night ouside the Gate.

Aragorn mounted and paused to take in the battlefield one more time. In the past, there was always a song to express his joy or his grief. Tonight there was only weariness and emptiness, and he could not ask his voice to sing. "Lord of the Mark," he said slowly, "Lady of Rohan, Kinsman of the North, your lives were a high price for this city. It is bitter to me that my kingdom will rest on your graves."

Proper songs would be written later, and mourning would be possible when he finally reached his tent outside the gate. Now he must ride to the City with the other captains, leading his victorious army behind him, leaving the dead on the red fields.

_Long now they sleep_   
_under grass in Gondor by the Great River._   
_Grey now as tears, gleaming silver,_   
_red then it rolled, roaring water:_   
_foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset..._


End file.
